I can speak the language of the dead.
You can't hear me when I do,
It's not a language you deserve to be fluent in.
You cannot take this away from me,
You cannot steal this as you have done
With everything else of mine.
They would be very upset.
They tell me how to help,
What to expect.
This is how I stay on the edge of good things.
We speak for hours,
You could never comprehend this,
It would confuse you, consume you,
Eat at you till you were a
Mere shadow of a man,
And then I would have to fix you.
I cannot teach this,
No one is worthy of it,
No one I know.
You have to be born with it
In order to nail the concept of what it's for.
You would go crazy in a week,
You would die a saddened man,
And me with no one else in whom to flaunt such talent,
While you undo me with your anger.